So Pretty In Your Pain
by Jay Rease
Summary: When Santana Lopez accuses William Schuester of rape, she splits the Glee club in half.  Only they know what really happened that night.  But what happens when Santana can't quite recall everything that happened?  Who's side would you choose?  Prompt Fill
1. Chapter 1

Title: So Pretty in your Pain.

Author:

Rating: M/NC-18

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Warnings: Statutory rape, violence, angst.

Summary: When Santana Lopez accuses William Schuester of rape, she splits the Glee club in half. Only the two people involved know what really happened that night. But what happens when Santana can't quite recall the incidents that occurred on the night she decided to visit that bar? Who's side would you choose? Prompt Fill.

Notes: I cannot find the prompt, but when I do I will post it. I will put this in a few chapters, thought I'd split it up instead of posting it in its entirety. The prompt I am filling involves Santana being sexually assaulted by Will, and the reactions and beliefs of a Glee club divided.

Please Review.

The bar was a haze of cigarette smoke and pissy cologne. There were dozens of people crowded around on barstools, men and women casually flirting with the object of their drunken affections. She maneuvered like a regular, walking up to the end of the bar and stealing a seat from the unsteady blonde making her way to the bathroom. She threw a curt nod at the bartender, the muscle head grinning at her before asking for I.D. She smirked, handing over the fake she'd bought from one of the delinquents near the Seven Eleven. The bartender threw it back at her, and poured her a quick shot of tequila. She pounded a fifty on the tabletop and waved for him to keep it coming.

Fuck the world. Fuck Earth, fuck the inhabitants; fuck every single asshole in it. Fuck Puck for wanting to mate with that humpback whale Lauren, fuck Sam and his Navi speaking bullshit, fuck Artie and his pitiful nonfunctioning legs.

She took another shot, swallowing the taste with the burn.

She was the hottest piece of action in all of Lima, Ohio. And she couldn't even keep a dork like Sam Evans interested. If the last few weeks of her life were any indicator of how much fail she would experience, the next few would be the death of her. The geek dumped her via text message, bitching and moaning about being done with the lip jokes. It was the last straw and she was so over each and every one of those fuckers. Those losers. She was above all of them. She didn't need any of them.

She needed to pick up someone who would appreciate her.

Some sexy old man who can admire her for all that she is. Some rich older guy who's still kind of sexy and who would value her body; no questions asked. None of those stupid _feelings_ Brittany tried to get her to talk about.

She took another shot.

Brittany. Brittany S. Pierce. Fuck her too. Fuck her and fuck being gay; fuck it all. She was crying now. Quietly, the bartender left the bottle next to her shot glass. She slapped her last fifty onto the bar top, throwing back the bottle and gulping a couple of mouthfuls.

Fuck money. How she got home would be someone else's problem tonight.

She sniffed. Fuck it all.

000 0000 000

He walked to the bar. He walked the four blocks from his apartment complex to the hole in the wall on the main street of his neighborhood; with a pocket full of cash and a little bit of hope. He needed to get out of his head for a while. Holly Holiday had blew through his life like a tornado. She led him on and teased him all the way to the breakup they had earlier that day. She called him when he was sitting at his desk before school, and told him that she was heading to Columbus. The quick, "It was fun" didn't register until his third period class. He sulked for the rest of the day, the bitter pull in his chest only hurting when he came across something that reminded him of her.

He told himself to cheer up by the time he got home from school. He convinced himself that he'd find someone and tried to smile through his microwave dinner and episode of Seinfeld. When Emma called after the third commercial, he was shocked. She called to talk about her problems, and came to the conclusion that she would fix her marriage. That was the punch to his gut. After riding around in his car, listening to alternative rock, he pulled back into his space, and decided to go have a little fun.

Maybe he'd bring someone home.

The bar was crowded for a Thursday night, but then again—he didn't frequent this bar enough to know that. He walked up to the bartender at the front of the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey and a bottle of Pilsner. He downed his shot and let the buzzing hum of the crowd lull his nerves.

Screw _this_. He was the good guy and he constantly got played. They strung him along and lied to him. He was done with the nice guy attitude. He was going to be a 'hit it and quit it' type of guy from now on. Find some hot little spring breaker looking for a quick fling. He never had the chance in his life to live like a bachelor.

He ordered another shot.

There was a commotion coming from the other end of the bar. A throng of people were catcalling and hooting at a couple making out. He leaned on his heels to catch a glimpse. At least someone was getting laid tonight. He smirked at the couple at the other end of the bar, the girl with the jet black hair seeming oddly familiar. He slowly approached the scene, realizing almost immediately who the girl was.

"Santana?"

000 0000 000

How she heard her name over the group of people in the noisy bar, she'll never know. But she pushed away the freakishly muscular and hairy guy she'd been kissing to see who was addressing her. She swiveled around on her stool, almost cackling when she came face to face with her Spanish teacher.

"Shue! Que pasa!"

She slapped the tops of her thighs and stood drunkenly from her seat. He put his hand on the small of her back and maneuvered her toward the bathroom.

"No me toques—"she shrugged away from him, straightening her jean jacket. ""-gosh, no need to get handsy!"

He closed the bathroom door behind them.

"Santana, what are you doing here?"

She was trying to shoulder her small purse, her low eyes adjusting to take in his stance.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

He rolled his eyes.

"Something illegal, I bet. How'd you get past the bartender?"

She smirked at him.

"You don't have to worry about that…_Will_. Let me go back to what I was doing…minding my own business."

She started to wobble away, but was abruptly stopped by his firm grip on her elbow.

"I'm not letting you stay here Santana. You're underage. And we had a pact, you signed a contract."

She laughed.

"What are you going to do? Sue me?"

"No—I'm taking you home."

She scoffed.

"Whatever. I didn't call your wino taxi service, now move outs my way."

She stared at him for a moment, before he spoke again.

"Santana I will seriously call the police. Now do you want to get everyone in here fined and you written up? I'm sure you would rather your parents didn't find out about this." 

He stared at her for that extra second too long, before she finally crossed her arms and huffed her way to the exit. He followed her to the parking lot.

"Well, where's your car?"

"I didn't drive." He slurred for the first time that night.

The cold air disoriented him momentarily. He straightened his jacket and stood straighter.

"Are you drunk? Psst. It figures."

She held out her empty palm, nodding toward him.

" Well. Call me a cab. I'm out of cash."

He smirked at her, rolling his eyes and pushing his jacket behind him; reaching for his wallet. He fingered the small bills, remembering that Santana would probably have to ride all the way out to Lima Heights. He didn't bring out as much as he thought he did.

"I don't have that much on me…come on, you can sleep it off at my place. It's only a few blocks down. I'll drop you off at school tomorrow?"

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm not coming to your place; that's _lame_. I'll just go back inside. I'll find my way home. Trust."

She swiveled on her heel before getting tossed over a shoulder.

"You're not going back inside. And don't throw up down my back."

She crossed her arms and let him march her down four dark blocks to his apartment. By the time he set her down on his couch she was dizzy enough to just sit still and pass out. When he was sure she was sleeping, he picked up her purse and rooted through it, tucking her fake I.D. into his back pocket.

He left her there. On his couch. And went back to the bar.

000 0000 000

He walked home alone from the bar. The woman he had talked to for the last three hours wound up going home with some random biker; a belly full of beer in her stomach that he paid for. He took his time dragging his legs to his apartment complex, throwing his keys on the table by the door and kicking off his shoes. He went right to the refrigerator, fingered a six pack and went to sit on the couch. The living room was empty. He knocked back his first beer, guessing that Santana went home.

The night out hadn't done anything for his sour mood. He was tired of playing it straight all the time and getting burned the most. He was tired of being the guy everyone came to for all their problems. He wanted to be the guy who got the girl; what was wrong with him? He was trashed now. The last beer sent him tumbling further into inebriation. He was **angry**. He was fed up. He was done with all of it. He was finished feeling like he was worthless, he was tired of being used and played with.

He put the empty bottle on the table.

The toilet flushed. A flustered Santana wandered out of the bathroom, tugging the edges of her skin tight striped dress. She plopped down on his couch next to him, snatching one of the beers from the box in front of her. She put her bare feet on his coffee table and twisted off the cap- chugging back one of _his_ beers. He snatched it from her.

"Didn't you have enough already?"

She snatched the beer bottle back, smiling around the rim, swallowing good amounts of brew before speaking. "Says who?" He snatched at the bottle again, missing at first before grabbing it out of her hand. He stood on shaky legs, his expression serious. "The law, Santana! You're not allowed to drink. And besides, what happened to our pact, no drinking til after Nationals." He was slurring slightly, the sounds his words were mocking the serious tone he was trying to set. She was walking toward where he was standing, circling the small space around the coffee table. She came behind him and plucked the beer from his hand. "Don't give me the crap, Mr. Schue. And didn't you agree to that same shit? You're just as wrong as I am-"

She puckered her lips around the opening of the bottle and took another hefty swig. He walked around the coffee table with as much agility he could muster. He dragged the bottle from her hand and pushed it as far as he could behind their bodies. "You're sixteen, Santana, that's why it's wrong. You don't know what could've happened in that bar!" She rolled her eyes lazily, moving to grab at the box on the table. He picked it up quickly, tossing it to the other side of the room; the crash a cacophony of tension as she squared her shoulders and crossed her arms.

She wasn't smiling anymore. And he was suddenly sober; and furious.

"Oh whatever. I'm not a little kid, Schue." He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in erratic rhythms. She edged backwards, standing firm in her spot in front of the couch. They were separated by the girth of the coffee table, both of their upper halves leaning over it. "You could have gotten raped, Santana! Anything could have happened!" Santana scoffed. "Oh like what? Some pervy old man would have had his way with me?" He rolled his eyes at her. His fists were balled at his sides now, tight and red against his anger. "Well I'm sure it would've been easy the way you were throwing yourself around!"

She leaned forward to point her index finger into his chest.

"Oh Please, Schue. You came there looking to catch exactly what I was throwing around! I'm a _pro_. I mean look- I wound up in some pervy old guys apartment anyway."

He pushed her away violently; she stumbled and fell onto the couch, half-frowning at him. She stood again, making sure not to get too close to him. "I. Was. Not. And besides, Santana; you're sixteen! You're still a kid!" She smirked at him. "You're so full of shit! You parade around like you're holier than thou! I see how you look at me; you definitely don't look at me like I'm a kid!"

She was punctuating her sentences with her finger, digging it annoyingly into his chest.

"Why are you only concerned with what people think of your body, Santana? I'm sure there is so much more to you than that." He wasn't slurring as much, but there was still a lisp in his voice. His chest was rising and falling in roars, and he was grinding his teeth. Why didn't she get it? Why was she laughing in his face when he was only trying to help her? His anger was building, he'd been slightly annoyed before; but she was pushing him closer and closer to his breaking point. She was just like the others. She stopped poking him in the chest long enough to back out of his personal space.

"You're so stupid for a grown-up. I like sex, Schue, there's nothing wrong with that. Stop making everything so after school special. I can handle myself with any man—" "Why are you such a whore, Santana? Most importantly—what happened to you that made you such a… a bitch?" She took a step back, bumping into the couch behind her; affronted. The hurt on her face was like a flash across her features, he could see her slowly build back her bravado. He almost felt sorry for saying what he said, he reached out, his head shaking in hesitant regret. She recoiled. "Don't touch me! Are you really that dense? You must be since you're actively pursuing the virgin bride." He whipped his hand back to his side, the concern gone from his face. This was what he was talking about. He was tired of getting all of the bullshit thrown in his face. He was tired of being criticized, he was sick of being called a joke. He was so done with going out of his way for women- only to have every little thing picked at. He was breathing erratically all of a sudden, and his words were crisp. "Take that back, Santana."

She straightened her shoulders.

"Whatever, Schue, I'm tired of you playing therapist when your life is so shitty. I mean you couldn't even get laid by Holly Holiday. Like that's hilarious. She's a grade A slut, and you couldn't even seal the deal…" He was clenching his fists at his sides, his mouth tight around his stressed jaw. "Shut up!" She flinched, but she didn't back down. He felt the alcohol coursing through his veins like blood, pumping his anger like adrenaline.

"What is it? Couldn't get it up? Is it little? Is that why you couldn't get your wife pregnant? Quinn told me how she was going to sell her baby to Terri…" She was gritting through her teeth, her jaw set like she'd settled on saying the words even though she knew she should bite her tongue. She was mocking him from every possible angle. He could only see red, his hand reaching out fast to backhand her across the face.

"I said shut up."

000 0000 000


	2. Chapter 2

When his hand made contact with her face, it sent her body reeling sideways. The shock from him hitting her seemed to outweigh the panic that gripped her heart when she realized that it wouldn't be a clean descent. She had no way of knowing how to catch herself from falling, and the arm she puts out does little to stop the corner of the coffee table from meeting her face. It was the last thing she saw before impact, and she was unconscious by the time her body tumbled heavily to the floor.

When she opened her eyes again, she was bent awkwardly over the table, something warm and thick sliding into her left eye and sitting heavy on her lashes. She noticed then, when trying to reach up to wipe away the offense, that her wrists were locked behind her by a firm hand. He was grunting angrily behind her, and she couldn't lift her head through the dizziness long enough to see what he was trying to do.

He was muttering things beneath his breath, things she could only recognize between the ringing in her ears. He seemed to be drunkenly babbling with an invisible someone, and she hears snippets about "These ungrateful women", and how he'll "Teach them all a lesson". She is nervous when she finally understands what he is grappling with, and before she could will herself into fighting, he'd managed to tie his belt around her wrists.

The fogginess from the cut above her eye dissipates when she realizes what he is about to do. She struggles as much as she can through the haze that's clouding her brain. _She won't beg_. She won't sacrifice her dignity to a man she's lost respect for. Her shoulders are straining against the belt, and she tries to lift her head from the coffee table. Seeing her own blood is enough to send her crashing back to the sticky surface.

He doesn't pull her panties down. He lifts her dress up over her tied hands and he pulls them roughly to the side. She's exposed, but she's disoriented and her vision is starting to blur in the eye she can still see through. She knows she should fight, but the concussion she was sure she had was stopping her from moving at all. Any protest she could have put up was thwarted when he pushes into her.

He works into a random pace, and he pulls her up by her hair to whisper lewd things to her between thrusts. She feels the pain coming from both ends of her body, and she thinks it should knock her out soon; she hopes it does at least.

"How small does it feel now, Santana? Hmm?"

The inquiry comes with a brutal thrust upward, and she can't keep the whimper from crawling out of her mouth. Her shoulders hurt, and she hates the man inside her more than she's ever hated anything. He chuckles, gripping her hair tighter than before. The 'Fuck you' she manages to grumble out earns her a rough shove back onto the coffee table, and she finally succumbs to blissful unconsciousness.

The next time she opens her eyes, there is a new weight crushing her chest. Her dress is bunched around her waist, her underwear gone and her hands are cramped and burning underneath her. Something unfamiliar is happening, and she wails groggily against the new assault. She can smell herself on his face as he hovers above her, and she feels nauseous at the thought of what he probably did when she was unconscious. He's grunting harshly in her ear, and she smells the alcohol his body is exuding.

His arm is taking away her air supply, and she doesn't know how long she has before she passes out. He keeps thrusting, oblivious to her current state. He starts moaning her name, then he groans out another name she can't decipher as he climaxes. She can feel the flutters of his girth expand and contract inside her. She despises him. He wasn't supposed to have this in him. A voice in the back of her mind tells her that she probably pushed him too far last night; but a voice that sounds like Brittany's whispers that she doesn't deserve this. She feels the corners of her vision darken, and before she blacks out completely, she does the only thing the position she is in allows her to.

She spits in his face.

He growls at her, and she feels him pull out of her, a stickiness running down her tired legs. She thinks it's over, and she wonders what he will do when he realizes the crime he's committed against her. His face juts into her peripheral, and he has a gleam in his eye that shouts insane. When he hits her, this time, he knocks her out. She doesn't wake up again.

000 0000 000

He's woken up confused too many times to count since his divorce. He has to remind himself not to expect breakfast that used to tickle his senses awake; he's had to forget the routine of having his clothes ironed and hung for him- he's had to stop rolling over in his bed to reach out for Teri in the night. This time, he's confused because he wakes up on the floor.

The sun is blaring through his open windows, and he feels the hangover force his eyes shut, his head banging loudly without pause. He opens them again and stares at the clock on above the mantle without moving his head. He has time to make it to school; he just needs to pull himself together. When he finally musters enough strength to sit upright; last night's events become clear in the clarity of morning.

He first notices her ankles. They are peaking from behind the couch. A lot of last night, he doesn't remember. But he feels the panic flutter in his stomach as he remembers the fury that built in the reaction of her harsh words. She was so good at hitting below the belt. He remembers the ill intent that his consumption turned into misplaced rage. He crawls over to her, his hangover instantly forgotten, and he lets the scene sink in. Her legs are bruised and spread open, with fingertip sized marks and crescent moons that dig deep into her flesh. Her inner thighs are littered with bite marks, and her body is vulgar against the accusations ringing in his head.

There is dried blood smeared on her inner thighs, crusted semen securing his place in hell. He can't comprehend what he's done, it's too heinous. _That wasn't him last night_. He follows the trail of bruises to her bust, which peak over the hem of her dress; torn at the top and around her cleavage. There are marks there too, angry welts and scratches; bite marks that tear intimate flesh. The heavy feeling in his chest sinks when he sees her face. Her bottom lip is split. There is a lot of blood dried and flaking near her left eye and in her hair. One side of her face is a puffy, a shadow of purple and black.

He sits there for so long, guiltily on his knees, before realizing that he should actually check to see if she's breathing, if what he did hasn't killed her. When he goes to her neck, she doesn't stir. He feels for a beat and instantly recoils when he finds none. He almost puts his head to her chest, but her undress has him uneasy to touch her again; without permission. His thoughts race at a frenzied speed. He looks for her wrists to check for a pulse, and realizes that her hands are tucked under her.

When he pushes her onto her side, she moans painfully, but doesn't wake. Her hands are blue. He unties the belt loop quickly and rubs circulation into her blackened wrists. He knows he should call an ambulance. He knows he should call the cops. But he doesn't know what he'd tell them. He doesn't remember most of this crime. Flashes of last night bombard him and the bitterness on his tongue tastes vaguely how Santana smells.

There is a beer bottle near her on the floor. There is something thick on the glass and when he goes to look at it, he can see the boldness of blood heavy around the edge of the rim, his mind trying to make sense of what he used it for the night before.

He picks her up, her weight close to nothing as he walks her toward his bedroom. He feels the tears running down his cheeks. Guilt doesn't suit the feeling he has. He is terrified. His panic outweighs the shame he feels about what he's done. About what he is about to do. He understands his crime, but he can't accept it. He will lose everything he's worked for. He will lose the trust of so many people. He will lose his job, his freedom.

The next thought leads him to the bathroom. _**He won't survive in jail**_. He sinks to the floor, still cradling his unconscious student in his arms. He turns on the water, and he lets it run through his fingertips until it's warm. He reaches blindly into the cabinet beneath his sink for the Epsom salt, rocking slowly back and forth. He doesn't know whose benefitting from the movement, but it seems to still his shaky hands as he peels the rest of her dress from her body.

She doesn't wake up until she is fully submerged in water. She groans painfully at the stinging from her wounds, as he dabs her forehead with a cloth that was on the edge of the bath tub. She claws at him to let her go when she realizes that it's him holding her still. A cloud of red is coming from somewhere, and he's worried that it's coming out of her. She starts hyperventilating, and he grabs a towel from the rack and picks her up again. She's found the fight in her voice, screaming and wailing against him, clawing at him to put her down, to let her go.

He has never been as scared as he was in that moment he sat her down on his bed. She wraps the towel around her and begins rocking, trying to take steadying breaths between gasps of fear. He sees the crimson spot collecting on the white towel, and he realizes solemnly that he may have broken something inside her. The shuddering breath he releases hurts his chest. He snaps out of the trance he has been in and moves to a bureau to find something that might fit her.

She is counting. She gets to twenty by the time he hands her the clothes, and she cowers away from him as he backs out of the room. He handles the task of calling into work, and he sits at the dining room table as he waits for her to emerge from the bedroom. He is warring with the advocates on his heavy shoulders. The bump on her head looked bad, and he knew that he had to take her to the hospital for the bleeding that's seeping from private places.

He could lie, he thinks. She was drunk. He took her from the bar and when he got back she'd left. He could get the police to believe him over someone like Santana. He could try to convince her that she showed up that way, that she called and needed a place to stay and he hadn't known about her injuries until morning. Maybe her head injury left her without pieces. He worries about the evidence he left all over her body. How easily they could incriminate him. Maybe she doesn't remember. Maybe she was drunk enough to let it fade into the haze of inebriation.

He can only hope. He is trembling by the time he hears the door click open. She looks tiny in his clothes, her hair knotted in a ponytail with what looks like a scrap of her torn dress. She avoids him completely, looking around for something in his now messy apartment. She finds her purse and her shoes and her jacket, and she tugs them on before walking past him for the first time to get to the front door.

He reaches out to stop her.

"Santana let's talk about this..."

She jumps back defensively, and he can't stop his nervous hand from shaking mid-air. It feels like she has his life in her palm.

"D-don't touch me. Ever again."

He treads lightly, trying not to upset her more than she is already.

"I don't-Santana what happened last night?"

She deflates. Then she laughs. It's a laugh he hears from her most when she's about to insult someone. It's unnerving.

"Figures. I guess you'll have to find out from Lima PD."

She moves around his arm, heading for the door. Before she grabs the knob, he says the one thing he hopes will stop her.

"They won't believe a slut like you, Santana. Especially over someone like me."

He watches her shoulders tense. He wonders how much pain she is in. She slouching, an arm over her stomach as she turns around.

"Is that right, Schuester? They won't find the semen inside me? They won't be able to match your teeth marks? You really think you can scare me into not putting you away you fucking, **rapist**? What are you going to tell them, Schue? Huh?"

He clears his throat. He knows she's right. He finds it commendable that she isn't in shock. She's still trying to keep herself together in front of him. He knows it's wrong, what he is about to say. He isn't proud of what he is about to do. But he **can't** go to jail.

"That's easy, Santana. Everyone saw you at that bar, I'll just say you seduced me. You wanted it, don't lie, Lopez. You got what you were dishing out, face it. And they'll see how big of a slut you are, the same whore you've always been. I washed away what was left of evidence, I'll tell them we had consensual sex... and that you disappeared right after. Because I'm sure they'll believe there was another Tom Dick and Harry waiting to go next. I'll get off with a slap on a wrist... and everyone else will know the truth."

He expected her to crumble. He expected her to agree that this wouldn't leave his apartment. She squares her shoulders and winces before speaking.

"Go to hell Schuester."

And suddenly, he's alone. And mortified.

Please review.


	3. Note

Hello everyone. I am sorry to say that this is not an update. I have received countless inquiries about this fic, and I thought it better to address it here, than to continue to private message so many of my readers.

So Pretty in Your Pain has not been abandoned. I will not let another author adopt my work. I have not forgotten about this fic. That being said, this fanfiction has been finished for quite some time in my notebook.

When I first posted this story, I received a lot of bad messages from readers, and threats from multiple users about reporting the story for content. Consequently, I let the story fade to the background as I uploaded new, less controversial fics. When I launched my personal website to house all of my fics (see profile for address), I thought I could post without the harassment from disgruntled readers (who did not heed my warnings). However, hecklers and threats continued, and I decided to wait on posting more to this story because of the sensitive subject matter.

I have a full time job—and this time of year is extremely hectic. I don't have time to transcribe from my notebook onto my laptop, and some stories get priority over others. Between social gatherings, work, school related issues, novel writing and other obligations, I am a **very** busy person. Please respect my pace—because I am writing for readers with no monetary gain. I am writing for an audience on my own time; what little of it I have. This is a hobby for me, and I hate being rushed.

SPIYP will be posted in its entirety. I will not post chapter updates due to my fear of my other stories being taken down. When I do finish typing up the entire fic, I will post it to my personal site. If I receive no personal backlash from this note—I will also post it here for as long as it stays unreported. Hang in there with me, you guys—I have not, nor will I forget about this fic and its outcome.

I will be announcing dates on my tumblr in the future, when I am close to a post date.

Thanks for your patience, and continued enthusiasm on seeing this fic through to the end.

Jessica.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note:

I have been missing in action lately, and that's mainly because I was busy with work and Nanowrimo. I finished the challenge, and I published my first original novel: Villainous.

In the meantime, I've been typing this up slowly. I'd like to say thank you to all the patient people waiting on this update. I was planning on updating this in it's entirety. However, at the rate I was typing it may have taken another month before I could post. I have received so many questions about this fic and if I was updating. Enough of them that I decided that I could break up what I had and post it as it came.

I apologize for the wait; and hopefully it was worth it.

This is still a trigger fic. Proceed with caution.

Warnings: Rape, Violence, Bullying, and graphic depictions of a traumatic event.

Chapter 3

Evidence. There is so much of it in his apartment he knows he only has the time it takes for Santana to walk to Lima General. He nearly runs to the living room. Shards of glass and blood and bodily secretions. He starts with remnants of beer bottles. His head is throbbing but the fear propels him into motion anyway. If the cops found his place like this- there would be no trial. He would go straight to jail. Maybe he should flee instead- get a head start. Maybe Santana would talk herself out of telling.

He shakes his head.

No. This is his home and he won't let her run him out of it. People wouldn't believe he is capable of doing something like this. They'd assume things about Santana that could easily make it believable that she's lying...even though it would be him that was the liar. He goes to the kitchen and he grabs the bleach, the broom and dustpan, and a large trash bag. He sweeps the shards of glass up, throws away the bottles on the floor (he wipes the rim of the bottle that has Santana's blood on it with bleach). He tosses everything away that's damaged. The rug beneath his coffee table goes into the trash as well. He wipes her blood away with cleaner in hopes there's nothing left behind.

The last thing he throws away the belt he used to tie her hands.

He gets nauseous then; the belt must have rubbed Santana's wrists raw; bits of skin and dried blood litter his favorite belt with guilty reminders. He barely makes it to the bathroom to heave up most of the food (and alcohol) from the day before. He leans on the toilet for a moment, wondering how far this would have to go...how much of this he could stand without breaking. He can't remember certain things from the night before. Mostly he remembers his outrage.

He cleans the shower with bleach. He throws away the sheets and the towel Santana bled on. When he's finished, he showers. Standing under the spray he feels the grime from yesterday fall bare at his feet. He sees the pink hue of her blood on his shaft; mingling with the semen he probably left inside her (she has to be on birth control...with a reputation like the one she has- he convinces himself not to worry about that). He can smell her on his face. He almost doesn't remember why. When he closes his eyes his mind goes to his crimes and he remembers how limp her body was beneath him...how dry.

He remembers pulling out of her angry- mad her body didn't comply to what he needed to do to her. He remembers diving in- swiping up and down her folds in perverse frustration, trying to make her wet enough to get him off. The shame he feels now was absent the night before. He can remember how she felt wrapped around his shaft- clenching and tight.

He feels like a savage at the response his penis makes at the memory of her.

The first tear that falls is camouflaged by the spray of the shower. More fall, sounds follow. He falls to the floor of his bath tub and he sobs-he cries for the sins he's committed against the girl; he prays he'll be forgiven. He stands when he realizes that there is no time for his tears. And he gets out of the shower and dresses with intentions of burning everything in that trash bag before the police get the warrant to search his things.

He has to come up with something believable. He went to the bar the night before. Found her there. There were witnesses to attest to that. She'd been drinking- they had a pact. He wasn't sober enough to drive her home, so he took her to his apartment to sleep it off. He left her on the couch.

Her fake I.D. is still in his pants. He rifles through the trash bag until he finds the soiled clothing; happy that he finds the laminated card. He realizes then that she's wearing his clothes. He'll tell them he gave them to her to sleep in. When he came home she was still drunk. She came on to him; but he refused her. Angry- she left. He hopes there are no traces of him inside her. He can't remember how many times they- how many times he came last night. And if any of them were inside of her.

The shame creeps across his skin like a cool breeze.

He pushes it aside (he'll have a lifetime to hate himself if the police believe his story). He grabs his car keys and a bottle of aspirin on the way out the door. He knows the perfect place to burn everything in the bag. He hopes there is enough time before the police know to come looking for him.

He hopes he hasn't ruined her.

000 0000 000

She crumbles in pain when she slams his door behind her. She doesn't need the false bravado once she leaves his apartment. She's disoriented and dizzy and she can't shake the feeling that she'll throw up. Everywhere hurts in a way she never thought possible. She grits her teeth-the pain would fade. She could heal. She needed to find a way to the hospital. The clothes he gave her smells like him. She wants to rip it off her skin. But she feels naked as she walks...like everything that happened the night before was written in big bold letters across her chest.

What she can't remember from the hazy parts of her mind are the scariest things she can imagine. Even scarier than all the things she knows he did to her. She hopes silently she never remembers. But she needs to know...if she is going to go through with reporting him.

She needs to call someone.

But the only names that cross her mind are people at the opposite end of burned bridges. She didn't want to call her brother. Or her mother. She didn't want them to see her this way. Sullied. Used. She needed to get fixed up and file a report and then she'll call her parents. The walk to the hospital from his neighborhood would normally take her ten minutes. It takes her a half hour, a constant grimace, and small...unbearably painful steps. One foot in front of the other, pain shooting from places she didn't want to think about until she is standing in front of the emergency bay doors.

The knot on her head is the first thing she notices in the reflection of the automatic doors. Blood vessels are broken in her left eye beneath it. Fingerprints are bruised into the skin around her neck. She could feel all the places his hands had bruised across her body. All the teeth marks beneath the clothing that smells of him. The doors slide open when she trips the sensor, and her visage disappears and she struggles across the threshold.

She needs to call someone.

Shock isn't the word for what she's feeling. She doesn't remember anything that happens after the nurses station. She winds up in a room, on a bed that's too cold and a hospital gown that shows too much of her marred skin. She hates Schuester more than anything she's ever hated in her life. The nurse who takes her blood has sad eyes. Santana doesn't want to be pitied. She looks away when the doctor comes in, saying things she can't hear over the screaming in her head.

She forces it out. She shuts down the thoughts. The questions.

"What?"

The doctor stops whatever diatribe of procedure she is on to address her.

"We need permission to administer a rape kit. We had to call your guardian to do so. Your mother is on her way. Due to the severity of your bleeding, she gave us consent to begin the process. We have collected your clothing. The police will be by after your pelvic exam- and if you so choose to report this, they will be here to take your formal statement.

She nods. For the first time that day, tears prick the corners of her eyes.

The stirrups are daunting. The nurses hands are warm. The doctor's latex smells too strong. The doctor's hands against the insides of her thighs burn against her flesh. It reminds her of something that propels her into her own head.

His voice in her ear, his breath against the shell of it. "You're so tight- wouldn't have expected it from a slut like you." He is driving in and out with force, burning friction tearing apart her insides.

She wants to stop remembering. She needs the feelings to go away.

Flashes of things she can't remember hit her like an old projector movie.

Flash.

He's between her thighs. Her hands behind her back. She can hear her own groaning. She's out of it. She can't fight him. Or kick him. He reemerges with a sticky face. She feels him slide in again with ease.

Flash.

She can't breathe around his girth. He's inside her mouth. Stroking without pause; his hand gripping her hair in his fist.

Flash.

Her face is on the floor and her hips are tilted upward. Something unfamiliar is happening. Something hard and unmoving is moving inside somewhere different.

Flash.

She's throwing up. Onto the hospital floor, the nurse with the warm hands rubs her back. The doctor pushes away from her open legs. She finishes, exhausted. And she succumbs to darkness.

000 0000 000

He watches it burn. The glass. Everything that might link him to Santana. He burns his fingertips in the process, near the barrel fire as he tosses in the shirt he wore to the abandoned building. He found the place one night Puck called in a favor. He'll tell the police that it happened days ago. His prints might fit. But they won't match. He thinks back to what Santana said about his teeth marks.

He has a nail file in his car. He scratches it against the two teeth next to his two front ones until they slant downward. The drive home is quick and unforgettable. He takes another aspirin and falls asleep on the couch.

He tries not to dream.

000 0000 000

She wakes up to a room full of people. Her mother is crying in a chair beside her, her brother is in the corner, shouting into the phone at their father. The nurse with the warm hands is gone, and an older nurse with grey hair checks her chart. There is a police officer waiting in the door way, talking to a woman with bright red hair. The redhead carries a folder, and she tells the police officer that she's just the counselor. When the nurse realizes she's awake, she hushes the room and tells everyone to leave except her mother.

"You passed out. We did the pelvic exam after Nurse Sealy cleaned you up. You have stitches. You were torn both vaginally and anally. You...you lost quite a bit of blood but we think you'll be ok. We collected samples and we are getting them analyzed as soon as possible. We will test for any sexually transmitted diseases. We also brought you some documentation for the morning after pill. Read it over- you have the next 24 hours for full effectiveness. We have also documented all the teeth marks, contusions, finger print marks and bruises. It'll hurt for quite some time. Using the bathroom and washing may require assistance. Your shoulder is dislocated and you have a few small fractures in your wrists. Officer Trento is waiting outside. If you're ready to give your statement, I will send her in."

She nods, trying to process the information and force the bile in her stomach to stay.

"I'm ready."

If she doesn't do this now, she never will.

Officer Trento enters the room with her tiny notepad.

"Do you know who did this to you?"

"Yes. Yes I do. William Schuester."

000 0000 000

The banging wakes him up. It's hard and heavy and he doesn't remember until suddenly he does and he sits up and glances at the clock. It's nearly midnight. He fixes his hair as best he can and he goes to answer the door.

"William Schuester, we are here to search your residence. Here is the warrant. You've been accused of rape. Our team have the legal documents to acquire any evidence from your person, your residence and your vehicle."

The officer walks in without invitation, and another follows him inside.

"I'm officer Trento. I'm here to take your statement."

He tries to look shocked. He leads the petite woman over to his dining table.

"What's this about? I've never. I would never rape anyone. Where are these accusations coming from?"

"Where were you last night, Mr. Schuester?"

"I went to a bar last night." He has to play this right. He has to act like he has nothing to hide. "I saw one of my students there actually. Brought her back here after giving her a lecture on underaged drinking. I had been drinking myself- bad breakup- I couldn't take her home so I gave her some of my clothes and told her to sleep it off." The officer stopped writing.

"The student's name?"

"Santana Lopez. Here," he reached into his back pocket and took her fake I. from it, "I was planning on giving her parents a phone call this morning. I woke up feeling not too hot so I decided to stay home from work."

Officer Trento nods skeptically at him.

"Would anyone be able to verify that you stayed at the bar and for how long?"

"The bartender, I'm sure. And the woman I talked to last night...Brenda, was her name."

She nods again.

"What happened after you left the bar?"

Will pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well, Santana was still awake and very intoxicated by the time I got in. She actually," he chuckles and nervously rubs the back of his neck, "she actually made a pass at me. It's happened before- a few times. Last time it happened the girl came to my apartment and made dinner with my ex wife."

He chuckles again for good measure. Officer Trento looks annoyed enough that he lets the chuckle taper off into awkwardness.

"Well...obviously, I declined. Santana got quite angry and stormed out. I almost went after her but... I thought better of it. She had her phone and everything. I stayed in and drank a bit more. Woke up this morning late for work. But I - I didn't go back out last night. And I didn't bring Brenda home. Brenda- is she the person who accused me of assault because... I know I had to leave and everything but I would... I would never."

Officer Trento nods again, pursing her lips.

"Actually, the person making the accusation is a minor. I'm going to send a tech over. She's going to swab for DNA, take your fingerprints, nail clippings and a teeth mold. Is there anything you'd like to make clear now, Mr. Schuester? Anything you might want to tell us about what happened last night?"

The tone in her voice hints that she knows he's lying through his teeth. He swallows as quietly as he can under her scrutiny and he shakes his head, feigning shock.

"I don't know what you're hinting at officer. But no. Nothing happened last night accept me stopping an underaged girl from drinking illegally. I love my glee kids like they are mine. I would never do anything to hurt them. Send over your tech. Then finish your business and leave my house."

He did his best to look offended.

000 0000 000

Two weeks. It took two weeks for her stitches to dissolve. She'd been in the hospital for the first week, the redheaded counselor's name was Jenna; and she kept trying to get her to talk about her feelings and all the bullshit that's happened since that night. Of course, she didn't want to. She still doesn't. She tried her best to forget every detail that haunted her thoughts from the night Will Schuester...did what he did to her.

Since the...incident, officer Trento has been to her house almost every day. The first day, she came to tell Santana that Schuester had been formally suspended from work until trial. The second day, she came to tell her that the DNA that had been recovered was inconclusive-the most they could decipher from what wasn't washed away was that if it wasn't Will Schuester, it was definitely a close male relative. The third day, she told Santana that the bite marks didn't match precisely- and that any attorney could easily get it thrown out. The fourth day, she told Santana that because he burned his hands, the fingerprints wouldn't be admissible in court. The fifth day Trento showed up, she encouraged Santana to move forward with trial...even with the lack of evidence. There had been holes in his story- gaping ones. Officer Trento knew she could get it out of him, and if not her, then definitely a lawyer. There had been liquor in Santana's system. There had been liquor in his as well. By the sixth day, officer Trento had informed her that Schuester was being allowed back. And by the seventh day, Santana was close to recanting.

No one from school had come to visit. At first, she assumed that it was because everyone hated her. Her mother told her later that she forbid it- because Santana needed to rest and not think about anyone other than herself. But Santana had argued about it since she'd been allowed home. She was missing so many pieces of that night that it wouldn't leave her alone. Her body was torn and broken- she couldn't be around a man without being terrified-she would never be the same.

Schuester had to pay for that.

Tomorrow is her first day back at school. She's nervous. Lima is too small for people not to make the connection. She expected everyone would know. And just like Schuester said...no one would believe her.

000 0000 000

They found his semen in a few places he hadn't thought to clean. The underside of his coffee table- behind the couch. But that didn't matter because it's his house. There were traces of Santana's bodily fluids in two places in his apartment...one place was the bathroom-the other was his bed. They didn't know if it was blood, or something more intimate. Everything was inconclusive. Luckily...it was all they could find. He'd been suspended from working until the investigation ended.

At least Figgins had been surprised. He suspended him cordially, promising his position when the accusations were proven false. With all the evidence almost stricken from the record, two weeks had been long enough to let things blow over. He could return to work on the stipulation that he stay at least one hundred feet from Santana Lopez.

Which definitely wouldn't be hard for him.

He's going to be teaching from a classroom on the opposite end of the school and away from Santana at all costs. He isn't allowed to head glee until the trial, but Emma has filled his shoes in the meantime.

His guilt is all consuming.

He dreams of her each night. Bits and pieces he hasn't quite remembered drift back to him in sleep. Unsettling things- like the noises her body made; the sounds of her voice drifting through her unconsciousness telling him it hurt...to stop. He dreams of all the blood. He wakes up the same way every night, twisted in the sheets and crying... apologizing to the girl with sorries she'll never hear aloud.

He wakes up every night shamefully erect.

His body remembers her. He aches in a way he's never ached for a woman...for this child. He can't tell if being inside her is all it took or if he got off from the power. Knowing he did every deprave thing he'd ever wanted to, to her. He feels like karma is torturing him personally. And he knows he deserves it. He remembers the bruises he left on her; bruises he left from moving her dead weight. Bite marks he left on her body for the countless times he raped her. He remembers when he couldn't get it up anymore and he...and he did what he did. He had been so angry at her. At everyone. He wanted her to hurt in the worst way. He blacked out in anger at the time-but now he's remembering and he hates himself more every day. And every night he wakes up whimpering her name or soiling the sheets from the memory of being inside her, he almost turns himself in.

He's a coward.

He _should_ turn himself in. But now it seems like he'll get away with it. Officer Trento is on his heels, following him- asking the same questions she asked in the beginning. His alibi checked out. People saw him leave with Santana; they saw him come back alone. Brenda's name was actually Bonnie- and she verified that she and him talked for almost three hours and that "_The poor sap just wouldn't take a hint_". He had washed away most of the evidence that would have sent him to jail. But he isn't stupid. He knows the cop wants to catch him slipping.

He makes sure he tears up when she tells him the extent of Santana's injuries...he doesn't have to pretend to be mortified when she shows him vague pictures of bite marks and the scars her wrists will be littered with for life. He cries and puts on the best show of his life when he sees how cruel the world could be.

He's the only cruel one.

It feels like there are two people inside him now. The monster that raped one of his students. And the monster that lied about it.

Now it seems like the only one to judge him will be God. Tomorrow will be his first day back. He looks stressed. His lack of sleep has him on edge. He hopes he can continue with the facade.

000 0000 000

She gets to school early. Earlier than all the other kids and teachers-just so she doesn't have to walk the halls with all of them staring. It's the first time in her life she doesn't want to be the center of attention. She wears her cheerleading track suit to school, the one with the long sleeved jacket to cover up the marks on her wrists. Her cheek is still a brush of purple; her eye is still puffy and sore. She wears a turtleneck and she slicks her hair into her mandatory ponytail.

She likes the familiarity of her shield.

She sits on the field for a while, until shadows approach her from behind and she sees Sue there, tall and powerful. She sits down beside her and they watch the sky for a while, over the football field, in silence. When Santana thinks she can't take the tension anymore; Sue speaks.

"I'm not going to ask you if it's true. I know you, Lopez. And I know you'd never lie about something like this. I'm going to be here- I have eyes everywhere. He gets close to you...he speaks to you...he even sends you a note- I will know about it. And if you need anything at all, Santana, you don't hesitate."

She nods but doesn't turn to Sue. She feels her hands grip the bleachers and she tries so hard not to cry. Sue leaves her with her thoughts soon after. She watches the grass on the field for a while and before first period she composes herself and gets ready for the day.

The day starts with the staring. Everyone knows. Some people go as far as to call her names when she walks by. Santana is almost afraid of every slushy that she sees but none of the people holding it are bold enough to throw it. When she makes it to her locker for second period, she sees it from far away- blurry until she's close enough to find focus.

LIAR.

It's worse than any word she could have thought of. She takes a breath and she tries as hard as she can not to cry. She won't cry. She gets her things with everyone watching and she slams her locker shut before she scowls at the lot of them. They scurry and she clutches her books and heads to Biology.

She sits next to Rachel and Tina in this class; and she is almost so sure there will be some sort of backlash. The teachers all know the situation; but it won't stop most of the verbal violence that has commenced throughout the day.

She gets there early. Rachel comes in immediately after- shocked that anyone beat her to class. She sits in her usual seat. And she stays quiet like she normally does when it comes to Santana. Tina comes in after her, and she sends a scowl her way that makes her stomach hurt. She guesses this is how it would be. She might as well never go to glee again.

Rachel folded a piece of paper on her desk. Santana stares at it for a while before giving in to look. When it's flat, Santana's heart warms up.

_I believe you_...

She doesn't let Rachel see, but she smiles a little.

000 0000 000

Finn is waiting for him by his office door. Had he had any say, he thinks it should have been Emma- but he unlocks his door and waves him in anyway. He sits down at his desk and crosses his hands. Finn remains standing, pacing a groove into the floor with his hands unsure on his waist.

"I was going to ask you if it was true. But then I knew it'd be offensive. I mean...you're Mr. Schue. You're one of the only teachers here who gives a crap about any of us. That only made me think about Santana. She took my virginity you know. And she didn't even care after. She's always been a slut and I know that sometimes-"

"Finn... I'm going to stop you there. let's not...let's not bring her up. I'm sure this will all be straightened out. I thank you for your support, Finn but right now I'm just tired."

Finn sits, finally, and nods at him. This kid doesn't know the kind of man he looks up to and that kills Will. He straightens his tie as Finn speaks again.

"That's totally fine, Schue. I understand. Just- me, Puck, Artie, Tina and Mercedes...we got your back. we know you're innocent. We'll hold glee down till you're back. Don't worry about anything."

As Finn left, he could feel it spreading- guilt and shame. All over his body- reaching further; faster. He doubles over in his chair. He runs his hands through his hair. He tries to pull himself together and it fails. It takes a while- but he does. Just as Emma knocks softly on his door.

"William, may I have a word?"

He nods, standing and waiving her inside. She's holding a folder, it's pristine and well organized and thick; and she has it under her fidgeting fingertips.

"I wanted to check in about glee club. I wanted to know if you had anything setup or reserved for the auditorium?"

He gives her the practice times and waits for her to address the elephant in the room. When she doesn't, he takes the moment to gain an ally.

"Emma, you know that what they're saying isn't true..._right_?" A voice in the back of his mind hisses, _"Liar..."_ and he swallows thickly.

She backs away from his desk immediately when he stands from it.

"I want to say that I know it's not true but I'm not so sure. Santana Lopez may be mean; a bully at times. But she's never had a reason to lie. I am a counselor first, Will. And while I won't shun you for my personal belief in you- I will shun you until a verdict is made on the case. I will stay impartial...but I have a duty to these children first and foremost-"

"Emma, please- I would never; I could never! Just... let me explain what happened-"

"I can't, Will. Especially if she decides to come to me for guidance. I'm here as a colleague...but that's it for right now."

She leaves the office quicker than he can stop her.

000 0000 000

When she sees Brittany, she's with Quinn. When they see her they immediately are at her sides. They say nothing; but they walk the halls to their shared class and she feels safer than she has in the last few weeks.

The day continues with small surprises. Sam and Mike are at her locker after fifth period; scrubbing the word off it. She approaches them slowly.

"Hey San, thought we'd take care of this stupid graffiti for you." Sam smiles in a way that makes her forget how bad things are and Mike stops himself from reaching out to touch her.

"Won't Tina castrate you for helping me?" Mike shrugs. "Tina's being a bit immature. If she can't see how...messed up she's being then she won't see me."

She nods and suppresses the urge to hug them both- but she cringes at the thought. She isn't sure she's ready for that. They walk with her to glee, and she sees the division automatically.

Mercedes, Puck, Artie, Tina, Lauren and Mercedes are sitting together, talking until she walks in. The room goes silent, and she waits for whatever is about to happen next.

End Chapter


End file.
